I had no apprehension of a dawning crisis that would call upon me to
declare war against my worse or better self, for, of course, they
could not both be mistress of the field. How could I, all untaught,
suspect that upon the issue of such a victory would depend the
happiness or misery of my after life?

Fortunately for me, some kind unseen hand was stretching forth in the
hour of my need, somebody's deft fingers snatched the tangled web that
had gone so far astray in the weaving, and in the nick of time made a
hazardous effort to smoothen the silken threads for the busy loom that
waits not for the slow or the erring.

I was standing on the gravel path beside a bed of flowers that was the
object of my fondest care, one fair summer morning, immediately after
a festive celebration in baby's honour. My cherished, but homely, wall
flowers were dripping in the morning sunlight, and every leaf on my
blossomless geraniums was carefully saturated.

I stood, with my faded water-pot carelessly dangling from three
fingers of one hand, looking so absorbedly down the avenue after the
vanishing outlines of a glittering carriage that had just rolled
splendidly by, that the dregs of my water-can trickled all unheeded by
me, down the side of my new sateen frock, accomplishing what, in the
eyes of my step-mother, would seem nothing less than an absolute ruin
and wreck.

My attention was riveted upon the liveried driver and shining gilded
trimmings of this handsome conveyance, and a flood of serious
reflections suddenly burst upon me. I had begun to imagine myself the